Devon Michaelson had scant interest in his surroundings. His luggage contained only the necessary clothing for this kind of trip. Behind his bland expression, his hazel eyes were alert and penetrating. He heard everything and missed nothing.
He was disappointed when he learned that the ship’s captain and the chief of security had to be made aware of his presence on the ship. The fewer people who knew, the better, he thought. But if he was going to accomplish his mission, he needed the cooperation of Castle Lines to be placed at a table near Lady Emily Haywood’s, where he could observe her and those around her.
The “Man with One Thousand Faces” was well known to Interpol. His brazen thefts, which had occurred in seven countries, were an embarrassment. His most recent heist, the theft of two early Henri Matisse paintings from the Musée d’Art de la Ville de Paris, had been only ten months earlier.
The thief liked to taunt Interpol about his accomplishments, often posting details about the crime in the weeks afterward. This time the thief had apparently taken a different tack. From an untraceable email account, someone claiming to be the Man with One Thousand Faces had posted his desire to own the Cleopatra necklace. The post appeared shortly after Lady Emily Haywood had foolishly bragged to the press that she would display it on this voyage.
Castle Lines had been aware of the threat when Devon contacted them. They quickly agreed to cooperate.
A non-social man, Devon dreaded the fact that he would be assigned to a table and have to make conversation with strangers, all of whom he was sure he would find intensely boring. But since Lady Haywood was only traveling as far as Southampton, that would be his final destination as well.
I’ve heard so much about the Cleopatra necklace, how perfectly matched the dazzling emeralds are and how breathtaking they are to behold. It would be interesting to see them close up, he thought.
His pretext for the trip, to share with his fellow passengers, was to scatter at sea the ashes of his mythical wife. A good cover story, he thought, one that would account for his wanting to spend periods of time alone.
It was nearly seven o’clock, the time when cocktails would be served in the exclusive Queen’s Lounge, reserved for only those passengers on the private deck.